There lies a world so beautiful that a normal eye cannot see it; a world of colour, of soft contours and gentle light. This world is one I have missed my whole life, and one I hope to spare you the misery of missing too. Once, not so very long ago, was a world intertwined with magic and glory, so tightly woven that it became impossible to distinguish between the threads of normalcy and those of a mysticism. 

There was a being of dark curling hair, which rolled down his back as the hills roll the earth. His eyes were a shade of green, sparkling with amber fledglings, birds not yet taking flight– he was tall, and thin, with the ethereal grace of the other-worldly beings once called elves. A ranger, this being was, and a good one, at that. 

Ilyvan Iryan sat on one of the two beds in the little inn he and his friends were staying in, brushing out his hair with a simple wooden comb. Elves are not simple creatures, no, but wood elves, specifically those belonging to the northeastern tribes, prefer to keep their attire and belongings plain in order to emphasize their relationship with nature above material things. All this to say, the elf was combing his hair– his one prized possession, a sign of beauty and purity in his culture. The door opened, and in walked a stout, muscular little thing: a dwarf.

Now, you may have heard that if a dwarf and an elf both walk into a bar, only one will come out. It is indeed true that the two races have a long-standing strife with one another; this stems from a miscommunication many years ago– a difference in meaning of a singular word caused the straining of generations to come. But this dwarf is a peculiar one, and even stranger is his elven companion. They at first were strained too by the constraints of society, but since grew to become the best of friends, brothers in arms, and so much more. In such a small group, familial bonds and friendships are bound to form. In their small travelling party was Emmeline, a human cleric, James, a human fighter, Aldagar, the previously mentioned dwarf, and Ilyvan himself. An odd bunch, they were hired by Sir Francis Boswell to find his missing sister. 

“Vannie,” Aldagar huffed, making his way to the small fire in the corner of the room.
Ilyvan didn’t respond, in part because of his detest of the nickname and in part due to the fact that the herculean task of brushing his long hair required his utmost attention. The only sound in the room was the crackling hiss of the fire. Even the breaths of the two were light, barely audible– it was a tranquil moment not meant to be broken. In this world, silence is holy; with so very little of it, every quiet, peaceful, lolling moment is worth a hoard of gold. To have glory, to have magic, one must have the mundane, and the dishonorable; this world is a world of double-faceted things. Violence and peace, glory and scorn, adoration and odium. You cannot have one without the other, and both make noise– this makes the quiet, empty moments infinitely valuable.

The silence was broken by a woman’s quiet laughter, and the heavy stepping of feet against the hallway outside. The door opened, and in stumbled their other two companions. As though a page was turned, the story shifted. Ilyvan glanced down at Aldagar, who still sat by the fire, untangling his braided beard. You see, in the eyes of men, hair holds little meaning. It can be pretty, yes, but it holds no substantial value. In the eyes of dwarves, it is something sacred; in the eyes of elves, it is something precious. A dwarf wears both his long hair and long beard in many, many complex braids, adorned with beads and jewels that symbolize their relationships, achievements, careers, lives, and adventures. Every night and every morning they re-braid their hair carefully to ensure their stories are on display for every other dwarf to see and understand. 

Ilyvan ran his brush through his hair again, simply observing for now. Emmeline and James sat down on one bed, curling together as though they were one person, voices dropping to quiet murmurings. One of James’s hands reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind Emmeline’s ear, and Ilyvan thought he’d be sick. Touching one another’s hair is akin to marriage, for both elves and dwarves– or at the very least, an unbreakable oath and bond. A mother may braid her husband’s hair, or her child’s hair; brothers may braid one another’s hair, as may sisters, but even in the realm of family, it was something only done in private. To touch, caress, tuck, or braid another’s hair was a deeply symbolic gesture not meant for others’ eyes. Aldagar caught Ilyvan’s eye and nodded, a quiet gesture of agreement. Touching your own hair in front of others was duty, to touch another’s in the same situation was blasphemy. 

Eventually, things settled down for the night and the four went to bed; in the morning, the hike was once more on, and they were on the move. By nightfall they’d have gone many, many miles, but as of now they’d only gone as far as the edge of the forest surrounding the town they stayed in. As though they were cursed, nothing could be simple, and even leaving the quaint safety of their stay led them straight into danger’s grasp. The four smelled the orcs before they saw them, and scattered, intending to pick them off one by one.  Ilyvan easily picked off two by himself– a few arrows made pincushions out of his deadly foes. Be that as it may, the ever-graceful elf miscalculated, leaned back to grab another arrow, and tumbled down a rocky slope. Landing in a heap, the first thing he noticed was the strange tugging of his hair. It was snagged in between two jagged stones, he noticed, eyes as wide as they could go. He didn’t know quite what to do, so he tugged, gently, and found it immovable. He began to panic, then– his hair was his pride, his joy, his connection to his people and to the forests they called home. 

He knew what must be done– his fingers twitched towards twaeg, his daggers, aptly named “the twins” in his own tongue. Even as his nimble fingers grasped around the handle of his blades he could not do it. He was truly stuck– his dignity torn by his pride. He does not know how long he crouched there, afraid to move for fear of tugging even a strand. He does, however, remember being found. Aldagar was the very one to find him, and though he was shamed, he was glad it was his companion who found him, rather than an orc.

“Vannie, we’ve been looking for you– what happened?” Though he asked in honesty, the situation needed no words to describe it. They communicated through eyes and eyes alone. With a great, dramatic sigh, the dwarf continued, “You always do seem to get yourself in these situations, don’t you? Well, you have two options, to cut it, or for me to untangle it.”

Ilyvan couldn’t part with his hair. So he sat, desperately still, and Aldagar’s rough, practiced hands released his hair from the rocks, with all the ease he had when braiding his own beard. They spoke not of it, but their friendship was written in the stars that day; forever they would be bound, and neither would mind. They became like family, even after their journey ended.